Thrice Upon a Marigold (9 page)

Above the trees, a plume of white smoke coalesced into the shape of a perfect heart before it dissipated into wisps and trails. Surely that had not been an accident. Apparently Hannibal didn't think so, either. He gave a satisfied little
toot
and then seemed willing to proceed.

Chris was reluctant to go on without mounting a vigorous search for Marigold, but risking combustion by the dragon would help no one. He knew the queen well enough to be certain that she would be with him if she could be. And he knew she would say that his first duty was to find their little Poppy. Once that was done, he could come back for her, and together they would figure out a way to get them all safely home.

What he could do right now was to leave two of Rollo's troops near the lair, ready to assist Marigold if it became necessary.

Christian sighed, sent some warm and encouraging thoughts in Marigold's direction, and urged the search party onward. He nurtured a hope that the dragon's heart-shaped feelings for Hannibal would translate into kinder treatment for Marigold and any other captives she might be harboring, despite the dragon's well-earned reputation for pyromania.

They rode for a long time, deeper and deeper into the forest.

Closer to Vlad's abode, they dismounted and tied up their horses and Hannibal. Clutching their weapons, they began to creep through the trees. Wendell was glad Christian hadn't decided they should run. If any wizardry was necessary, he needed to have all his strength.

“What kind of weapon is that?” Chris whispered to Sebastian.

“I call it an Arthurian mace. I made it up from scraps in the blacksmith's shop.”

“I made a flying machine once from scraps,” Chris said. “It's fun, isn't it, inventing things?”

“Indeed it is, Your Majesty. I'd say it's my hobby as well as my employment. I must admit, I feel rather guilty inventing a weapon. My father used poison as a terrible weapon, and I never want to be like him in any way.”

“Weapons can be necessary for self-defense,” Chris assured him. “It's all in how we use what's given to us. Would you mind if I had a look at your mace?”

Of course one never says
no
to one's monarch, so Sebastian handed the mace right over and took the king's halberd in return. Christian hefted the mace. “It's beautifully balanced,” he said. “And very heavy.” He ran his hand over the head of it. “And this design along the shaft—it's almost too beautiful for a weapon.” He handed it to Rollo, who silently admired it and wondered if he could get Sebastian to make one for him.

“I tried to imagine the kind of design King Arthur would have,” Sebastian said modestly.

“Big admirer of his, are you?” Chris held up his hand, bringing the party to a halt behind a screen of bushes not far from the lodge.

“Yes, I am, Your Highness. He was a wise and strong leader, and one who suffered a great heartache with dignity.” Sebastian shut up then, afraid the king might think he was being compared unfavorably to the great mythic Arthur. How he wished he'd had a father like Arthur, who was wise and strong and possessed of a heart that could be touched. Many times Sebastian had been unsure that Vlad even
had
a heart.

“I agree,” Chris whispered. “I aspire to be the kind of king he was. I even have a wonderful model of King Arthur and his knights seated at the Round Table. I bought it at a Market Day stall to inspire me. I must show it to you sometime.”

“Thank you, sire,” Sebastian replied faintly. “Would you like your halberd back before we go in? Or would you prefer to try my mace?”

Christian took the mace from Rollo and handed it back to Sebastian. “I'd never make a raid with an unfamiliar weapon. But I'd like you to instruct me in how to use it someday soon. Would you?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Sebastian said.

“Now let's go get Poppy.” Chris rose from the crouch he was in and, brandishing his halberd, began running toward Vlad's lodge. The others followed.

Wendell struggled to keep up, glad he probably wouldn't have to run very far.

A
T THAT VERY MOMENT
, Bartholomew, the younger footman, was looking out the window of the lodge, wondering how in the world he had ever let Emlyn talk him into helping her kidnap the baby princess. It was true that Emlyn was his cousin and had always pushed him around, and also that he was afraid to say no to her because she gave painful wrist-burns and lip-twists, especially since she'd started hanging out with Fogarty, who was even meaner than she was.

He'd thought he was safe when he'd left his home village and gotten a job at the castle. He loved his work on the household staff, fetching things for the royal family, keeping Swithbert's cup filled while he played endless games of Snipsnapsnorum, running errands. It was easy and satisfying work with nice people, and he had been happy. He couldn't believe his eyes when Emlyn and Fogarty showed up at the castle as employees! And Emlyn was to work as the nursery laundress! She was the last person who should be allowed around a baby.

And then kidnapping! With Vlad and Boris, the Terrible Twos! What had possessed him? What could Emlyn have done to him that would be worse than what would happen to him if he got caught?

Miserably, Bartholomew looked out the window, wondering how hard it would be to sneak away from this disaster. And what he saw made him change his thought from
if
he got caught to
when
he got caught! Here came the king! Running! Armed with a very pointy six-foot-long halberd and with some followers, including a guy carrying a weapon he'd never seen before, the captain of the guards, that wizard who had the big elephant, and the librarian.

Bartholomew didn't know what to make of this assortment, but he was sure it wasn't good news for him. No way was he sticking around to see how this turned out. He was
going!

As he dashed out into the hallway, he bumped into Fogarty, holding a rope attached to the goat. Behind Fogarty ran Emlyn, with the baby in the laundry basket, Vlad, and Boris.

“Where are you going?” Bartholomew cried.

“Out of here!” Emlyn yelled as they all disappeared around a corner. “There's trouble on the way!”

I know!
Bartholomew thought, but he yelled after Emlyn, “When were you going to tell me?”

There was no answer, and he found himself standing alone in the hall. Only when he heard the front door blast open did he leap into action, running through the back exit just in time to see Fogarty, Emlyn, Vlad, and Boris vanish into the trees. The goat stood alone, munching contentedly on a patch of creeping quack grass.

“Hey!” he hollered. “You forgot the goat! The baby needs the goat!”

The last flashes of running felons were swallowed up by the forest. And as that happened, Bartholomew realized that they had abandoned the goat because they no longer intended to feed the baby. They were going to collect the ransom and scatter. They might be, at this very instant, abandoning the little princess somewhere in the thick darkness of the tangled underbrush.

He was still standing there, the goat's rope in his hand, when the king and the others came piling out the back door of the lodge, bristling with shiny, sharp weapons.

“Hey, you!” Christian yelled. “Did you see some people come out this way?”

Dumbly, Bartholomew nodded and pointed into the trees.

“Come on!” The king waved his little posse onward. “They can't be very far ahead!” And he ran off into the forest, followed by the others, while Bartholomew stood watching them, still holding the goat's rope.

Is it going to be that easy?
he thought. Had no one recognized him? Was he going to be able to go back to the castle with some elaborate excuse for why he'd been missing for three days, bringing a goat along for amends, while Vlad and Boris, Emlyn and Fogarty, got whacked, and the baby rescued? But what if they only got captured and taken to the dungeon? They'd blab about him, for sure. Maybe his best option was just to run. But where would he go? And how fast could he move towing a goat? Wait—did he need to take the goat?

Bartholomew stood, immobilized by indecision, while the goat went back to enjoying the creeping quack grass. When he felt a tap on his shoulder, he jumped so hard that he yanked the rope, sending a wad of partly chewed quack grass shooting out of the goat's mouth. When he whipped around, there was the librarian, with her hands on her hips, glaring at him

“Don't give me that stupid, innocent look,” she said. “I know you're in on this.”

“In? In on w-what?” he stammered, feeling completely stupid if not all that innocent.

“I know who you are. Do you think that because I work in the library and hardly anybody ever talks to me that I don't know what goes on in the castle? The library window is right above one of the most popular stalls on Market Day—the one that sells all the clever gadgets and the Camelot miniatures. People stand there forever looking at things and gossiping. I hear it all. I know your cousin was the laundress for the baby princess. I know you're not the sharpest dagger in the arms chest. Well, I
am.
That's why I stayed behind the others, to see if the Terrible Twos had left behind any tricks or clues. I guess you're it. So where's the baby?”

“Baby?” he babbled. “What baby?”

She removed the sash from around her waist and snapped it between her hands. “I'm not in the mood for this. And in case you think I don't know how many ways to use this sash to inflict damage”—she gave the sash another snap—“please remember that I grew up in a house full of instruments of torture that only a twisted mind could ever think up. And I know how every one of them works.” She didn't add, of course, that the very idea of using instruments of torture made her want to weep, and that all she knew about her sash was how to tie it around her waist. One needs to keep one's advantage, after all.

Bartholomew fell to his knees and hugged Phoebe around the ankles. Because he was still holding on to the goat's rope, she found herself not only immobilized by his grip, but in much closer proximity to a goat than she cared to be. The goat took a mouthful of sash as Bartholomew wailed, “I didn't want to! But I've always been afraid of Emlyn. And she was mixed up with Boris and Vlad, and she threatened me with what they'd do to me if I didn't help. I was afraid of them all! I'm a dope, and a coward, and a weakling. I admit it. But I never wanted to harm the baby! They said they'd bring her back once they had the ransom money. But now I know they're not going to! Because of the goat.” He put his head down on her shoes and sobbed.

“The goat?” Phoebe asked. Maybe she wasn't so smart, she thought, or maybe he was even duller than she'd thought he was. She wasn't following this. What did the goat have to do with anything?

“For milk for the baby. They didn't take the goat.”

Then she got it, and her heart felt chilled. “Get up!” she ordered. “We've got to find them now! Where were they going?”

Painfully, Bartholomew got to his feet. “I don't know. They were just running. And they left me behind.” He hiccupped.

“Do they have a backup hiding place? They're still planning to collect the ransom money at the dragon's lair tomorrow, right? So they can't go far.”

“I don't know. They never told me anything. I was just supposed to make sure doors that should have been locked were left open, and that the coast was clear, and that I tied up Mrs. Sunday while they got the baby. They
used
me!” And more tears oozed from his eyes.

“Oh, stop that,” Phoebe said impatiently. Did he really think she would feel sorry for a bonehead like him who had abetted such an awful outrage? “Get moving. We have to find the others and tell them what's going on.”

 

“But
why
can't we go hide out at my place?” Boris implored, panting as they hustled through the trees. “It's not far. And we got to hide out at
your
place.” He sounded quite petulant about that.

“And you think your place won't be the first place they'll look after my lodge? They weren't supposed to double-check mine, but they did. So why wouldn't they go back to yours?” Vlad asked scornfully. “Besides, yours is a pigsty.”

“Hey!” Boris responded, stung.

“So where are we going to hide?” Emlyn asked. “We left the tent behind.”

“This wasn't part of the plan,” Vlad said. He'd been running as fast as the rest of them, but he didn't sweat or even seem to be out of breath. “And we're going to have to make sure there's no crying to give us away.”

“I'm not going to be crying,” Emlyn said, insulted. “I never cry.”

“Me neither,” Boris said, gasping for breath.

“You mean me?” Fogarty asked. “I won't cry.”

“Must you all demonstrate your deficiencies?” Vlad asked. “Who else do we have with us?”

“Oh!” Boris said. “The baby. But she never cries.”

“That doesn't mean she won't. She's a
baby,
or have you forgotten what we're doing here?”

Fogarty looked behind him as they ran. “Where's Bartholomew? I left the goat for him to bring.
I
didn't want to be dragging that thing along. She keeps eating my pants.”

“Don't worry about it. We're not going to need the goat. We're only going to have this kid with us for another day, until the ransom is paid. I have ways to keep her quiet until then.”

“But Bartholomew,” Fogarty continued. “What happened to him? They could catch him.”

“Even if they do, he can't tell them anything. He doesn't
know
anything—in more ways than one. And he'll keep them busy, slow them down, while we get away. How fast do you think we could have gone with a goat, anyway?”

“What do you mean you have ways to keep her quiet?” Emlyn asked. Hardhearted as she was, she hadn't been immune to Poppy's good nature or the charm of the adorable little royal baby garments that she'd spent so much time laundering.